Love Poem #2

If you were a tanker
bleeding black gold
onto penguins
and variform seabirds
letting fire rise in ungainly tides for a moon
that only knows it’s reflection

I would not be the ocean
or the variform seabirds
or the volunteers
toweling off variform seabirds
or the moon sun
nearest geographical landmass
overhead plane
or said plane’s passenger.

I would not be the newsman lamenting
the tanker’s owner, the tanker’s owner
cousin son dentist best friend
I would not be the small native population
adversely affected for years to come,
their Walntgut berries slowly dying or
the pasty sand that would no longer brick up.

I would be me
here
still.